The New David Espinoza

by Fred Aceves

  For days he’s been practicing his choreography to put on a show, make the most of his two and a half minutes of stage time.

  He spots me in the reflection and shouts, “There he is!” Presses pause in the middle of the song.

  He’s smiling big, clearly thrilled with how he’s looking. Since he started practicing, he’s been in a better mood. Spends more time at the gym after his workouts. Takes Crockett out for longer walks too.

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt,” I say. “I’m just heading out.”

  He comes up to me all normal, as if he has regular clothes on. “Ready to go?” he asks, looking me up and down.

  I’m just not comfortable around male nudity. It’s the same at the gym when I go to the bathroom and guys are changing or naked, going to the showers or heading back from them.

  “My boy’s got a date!” Alpha grins like he did on my first day of school. “I’m so happy for you.”

  Since he’s letting me borrow his Jeep, he starts to explain how to use the alarm system on it. I’m super excited about cruising around in that sweet ride, but it’s hard to pay attention to him when he’s mostly naked and looking like his face and body are two different ethnicities.

  “Do you mind being less naked or something?”

  “Sure.” He puts on a T-shirt, and actually looks weirder. It’s not just his size. Maybe only girls can pull off the just shirt and underwear look.

  He says, “Stay out as long as you want, bring the girl back here, whatever. I’m cool, you got me?”

  I laugh. “I’ll try.”

  “There ain’t no trying, bro!” he shouts like he’s spotting me. “There’s only doing!”

  I love seeing him in a goofy mood like this. It’s been forever since he’s been fun. He keeps it up, telling me my teenage years are running out and not to waste any time. He could be my cheerleader, if cheerleaders were 270 pounds of muscular beast.

  “So will you be trying or doing?” he barks at me once again.

  “Doing!” I shout.

  “Damn right!”

  Then he stands closer to me, shoulders curved back, which can only mean one thing: chest bump.

  “Do we have to?” I ask.

  “It’s safe. This T-shirt is covering up the grease.”

  The chest bump feels like running into a wall. I stumble back a few feet.

  He tosses me the keys. “If you crash my Jeep I’ll kill you.”

  I text Isabel to tell her where I’m seated as soon as I arrive. This coffee shop downtown is fancier than I expected. Pale wood tables and chairs that shimmer. Contemporary paintings hanging on the side wall. The wall where we’re seated, on the second floor, is nothing but glass. I look down on the darkening evening. The streetlamps already on and the cars easing down the street, some with the headlights on. I can see the crowd of people gathering at the park, over by the Tampa Museum of Art.

  It’s a free music concert Isabel heard about, featuring a few local bands. A fitness girl who’s into free stuff. Lucky me.

  I try out different sitting positions while I wait. I sit up straight, then a little slouched, before deciding that the coolest position is one in which I look relaxed. So I lean back, my legs sort of spread. Like I’m the most confident guy in the world when it’s the exact opposite. I can’t believe how nervous I am. I guess because it’s my first time on a date-date, completely winging it with someone I’ve seen for the first time in real life. It feels like an audition.

  After about fifteen minutes waiting, I message her again, but she doesn’t respond to that text either.

  Thirty-three minutes later, bored with Instagram and feeling like a total loser sitting alone while the rest of the tables have filled up, I decide to call Isabel. We haven’t actually talked yet, and I know it’s a weird first conversation to have, but how else can I find out what the hell is going on if she won’t text me back.

  The call goes to voice mail at the second ring. I tell myself not to get angry, but it doesn’t completely work. I leave the coffee shop, jaws clenched and brain turning over all the reasons why she might be avoiding me. I can’t help but think she found out about my previous identity, and had no interest in meeting Bitchslap David.

  When I put a few blocks of distance between me and the coffee shop I get a text from Isabel.

  I won’t be able to make it. Sorry. I got busy. Maybe some other time?

  Maybe? It doesn’t sound like she’s sorry at all. Though it’s annoying, I tell myself there are other girls. Tons of girls who want to get with the new me. I see two check me out as I pocket my phone and decide I’m not ready to go home so early. It’s barely after eight.

  The music coming from the concert is some guy strumming an acoustic guitar, far from an exciting opener. So I decide to walk the downtown streets.

  People don’t walk in Tampa. It’s what my uncle, when he visited from Mexico, thought was most bizarre about this city. From the airport where we picked him up and all the way to our house we didn’t see a single pedestrian. Lots of cars, he pointed out, but where are all the people?

  Downtown is an exception. There are actual people walking down the actual sidewalks. I go down Morgan Street, the neon signs of the bars and restaurants throwing colorful light onto the passersby. The tall modern buildings tower over me like protection, and then it’s the open greenness of Courthouse Square.

  I walk and let my mind wander all over the place but somehow my thoughts keep landing on my family. I pass a woman pushing a stroller and think of Gaby. Remember how I used to hold on to Gaby’s stroller when walking with Mom through the stores.

  Another woman, close to forty, has her blond hair in a braid. I think about braiding Gaby’s hair in a few styles that I learned from YouTube tutorials.

  It’s crazy the connections I make in my head, how anything can bring back a memory of my family.

  I pass the Subway, all those pictures of sub sandwiches in the window, and think of the tamales Dad and I made last Christmas—we tried and failed to replicate Mom’s recipe. It’s crazy that subs have me thinking about tamales. They do sort of have a similar shape, but still.

  I miss my family. More than ever. Maybe because Gaby’s birthday is in two weeks, which is weighing heavy on my mind lately. I have to be there for her party. Which means I have to apologize.

  I pass a smoothie shop that’s closed for the night and remember the meal replacement shake I left in the Jeep. It’s time to feed my muscles.

  I go back and drink the thick liquid.

  Then I make my way to the concert, the rock music getting louder with every block. Curtis Hixon Waterfront Park is really packed now, more couples everywhere.

  I study them. Their bodies, sure, but mostly how close they walk together. Guys with girls, two guys together holding hands. Tons of people paired up and out tonight, just like I would be with Karina, if we were still together.

  No, I won’t think of Karina. I just need to meet another girl, I tell myself.

  I lean back on the concrete barrier of the Hillsborough River to watch the crowd and listen to the fast-paced rock music from here.

  After a few minutes I see Karina. With a guy. A fucking chump who wouldn’t know a barbell if one landed at his feet.

  They’re walking past, about twenty yards in front of me, too busy in conversation to turn their heads, much less notice me. Why would Karina go out with a loser like that? What’s wrong with her?

  But after I watch them for a few seconds, a different feeling settles in me and I’m no longer clenching my teeth. There’s a deep stab of sadness in my gut and regret for how badly I fucked things up with her.

  I gotta admit that I’m not angry at her or the guy she’s with. I’m mad at myself.

  I watch them go, keep going, until they get lost inside the crowd.

  As I drive north on I-275, the roar of wind rushing down on me, I wish there was somewhere else to go, something I could do to cheer myself up. Because Alpha will already be in b
ed. I’m not eager to return to a dark house, and then into the total silence of my bedroom.

  I consider calling up Miguel, who I’ve messaged with a few times since the first day of school. He keeps saying we should hang out, and maybe we should. But not spontaneously at 10:24 on a Friday. Besides, he’s probably out with his girlfriend, who hates me.

  Oh well. Nothing to do but go home. I pull up to the house to find the lights on in the living room. Alpha must have forgotten to hit the switch before going to bed.

  Inside is the aftermath of a party. Opened cans of beer and a tequila bottle clutter the coffee table. Nobody’s around. Looks like the guys invaded the house to drink before taking the party elsewhere.

  The toilet flushes. The one from the bathroom I use. Seconds later Alpha comes out, glassy-eyed and stumbling. He puts his hand on the wall to steady himself.

  “What are you doing back?” he slurs.

  Holy shit. Alpha is drunk. Wobbling even, with a hand against the wall.

  I can’t believe it, the guy with a superclean diet. The guy with a qualifying contest in Miami next week.

  Alcohol is kryptonite to gains—the worst thing to consume when you’re looking to get shredded. His body will be metabolizing the alcohol instead of calories until it’s all burned up.

  “It’s pretty early,” he says, disappointment showing on his face. “What happened to your date?”

  I don’t wanna get into it, so I say what the guys at the gym say whenever girls disappear from their lives.

  “She’s crazy.”

  He walks over to the couch as I collect the empty beer cans.

  “You weren’t supposed to see me like this, bro.” He says this in a tired, barely intelligible voice. “Can’t believe I’m actually drinking. I hadn’t had a sip since . . .” He hiccups. “. . . in years.”

  He sinks back into the middle of the couch. Good idea. He could have busted his ass trying that with the recliner.

  I hug the six empties, carry them to the bin, and dump them.

  “Friday nights are for partying,” I say, trying to lighten the mood. “So was it just you or did the guys come over?”

  “Just me.” He tips his head back so that it rests on the top of the cushion, his eyes cast up at the speckled ceiling. “I fucked up, David. I fucked up real bad.”

  He sure did. If he doesn’t win Mr. Florida next Saturday, he can’t compete at the World Muscleman Championship.

  “One night won’t ruin you,” I say, trying to be optimistic. “Just go to bed and hit the gym hard as always tomorrow.”

  He leans forward from the couch to reach for the tequila bottle. Misses. On the third try he manages to grab it and moves it toward his mouth. I snatch the bottle from his hand.

  “It won’t ruin you as long as you stop drinking,” I add.

  I go into his bedroom for a pillow and the bedcover, which is rumpled on the floor like most of his clothes. What a disaster. No wonder he always keeps the door closed.

  The door of his bathroom is wide open. A syringe rests on top of the toilet lid. I go inside and find ampoules of Sustanon in the wastebasket. Plus syringes and the plastic wrappers they come in.

  What the hell is he thinking? Taking a few tabs of Tren occasionally, as he claimed, was bad enough. This is a full cycle he’s on.

  But I won’t get any answers from him now.

  Back in the living room, I set the pillow and bedcover next to him on the couch. “Here, buddy. Get some rest, okay?”

  Tears well in his eyes. While it sort of surprises me—you don’t expect such a big guy to cry—I know why he’s sad. I know why he decided to drink tonight. It’s the same reason he can’t leave the house or try to meet other girls.

  This is all about Mindy.

  “You’ll be okay, Alpha. You’ll see.”

  “I miss Mindy.” He lifts the collar of his T-shirt to wipe the wetness under his eyes.

  “You’ll find somebody else,” I tell him. “You just gotta get on some dating apps, leave the house. Next Saturday in Miami you’ll hook up for sure. Now you need to lie down and get some sleep.”

  Crockett has walked over to set his chin on Alpha’s knee. I’m glad to get some help here. Love is what my friend needs.

  “We had the perfect woman, Crockett,” Alpha slurs. “I fucked it up.”

  “There are tons of girls out there,” I say, full of hope. “You’ll meet a few for sure next Saturday in Miami.”

  He breathes in deeply and lets out a big sigh. “I can’t have them.” He tips his head back again and closes his eyes.

  “Your gains give you everything,” I remind him. “Even girls.”

  His eyelids tremble and a drop oozes out the bottom of each one.

  “No, I mean I can’t. I can’t get it up.” He says this with a hushed defeat, as if I’ve been pleading to get this confession from him for hours.

  Even if that means what I think it means, he’s drunk. People say crazy stuff when they’re drunk.

  “What are you talking about?” I ask him, just in case.

  “I pretty much haven’t cycled off gear in three years and it finally caught up with me.”

  I open my mouth to speak and then close it. What the hell is wrong with him? He told me to ride out the loss and he can’t even do it? It’s like he’s trying to ruin his health as quickly as possible. I think of what steroids are doing to me, but this is only my second cycle and there won’t be many more. I think. I hope I have enough self-control to eventually stop.

  In any case, I’m not going to panic or call him crazy right now. Not when he’s in this condition.

  “I got checked out by the doctor back in January. Then I went to the men’s clinic in St. Pete. I even saw a specialist in Orlando two months ago.”

  He opens his eyes, which are wet and unreadable. I need to say something. Twenty-four years old without erections? That’s . . .

  Is that the reason Mindy left? I don’t know what to say.

  “With another cycle,” I offer. “Or maybe if you cycle off for a really long time you’ll be fine.”

  Which he can’t do because of the upcoming competitions.

  “After you win the WMC title,” I say, correcting myself. “You can get off gear forever and then you’ll—”

  “No!” Alpha says.

  He pushes himself up from the couch. I walk over to make sure he doesn’t fall. To steady himself, he grips my shoulders with both of his hands. I ignore the pain of my zits.

  “I’ve tried everything,” he says, his breath reeking of alcohol. “I even cycled off for a whole two months, in the spring. I’ve tried different medications.”

  You can hear the hopelessness in his voice and see it all over his face.

  He sinks back into the couch, which exhales loudly from the pressure of all that weight.

  I feel so useless. What can I tell him?

  I take the bedcover in one hand and pat his pillow with the other.

  He nods and allows himself to drop his head on it, lifting his legs onto the couch with some effort.

  Then I cover him and shut off the living room light.

  By the time I pass through the dark to go to my room, I hear a drowsy murmur, then a nasal rasp as he falls asleep.

  26

  ON SATURDAYS, the morning trainer opens the gym at seven, which is Alpha’s favorite time to work out. I figured he’d be treating his hangover for most of the day so I’m shocked to see his Jeep gone when I wake up a little past eight.

  I head to the gym to work out, and also to tell Alpha what I couldn’t last night.

  “Where’s Alpha?” I ask Rassle, who’s doing bicep curls.

  “In the bathroom. I don’t think he’s feeling well.”

  I find Alpha bent over the sink, rinsing his face. Then he sucks up water to swish and spit it back out. Nobody else is here.

  “You had a lot to drink,” I say, “and you probably shouldn’t be—”

  “Listen, about that.” He drie
s his face with a paper towel and tosses it into the trash. “Thanks for taking that bottle of tequila and listening to me. But let’s forget it ever happened, okay?”

  “Sure, no problem. So are you cycling off, then?”

  “Let’s forget it,” he says forcefully.

  “I know you want to win the WMC, but why ruin your health forever over it?”

  He stares me down. I know he has more experience controlling his roid rage than I do, but it’s still scary to have his fierce eyes on me like this.

  “All this hasn’t been for nothing, David. Getting sponsored by a supplement company and winning a few competitions wasn’t my goal. Nobody ever remembers the guy who got fourth in the World Muscleman Championship.”

  “How about nobody cares about the WMC,” I tell him. “Ninety-nine percent of people can’t even name last year’s winner.”

  “I care,” he says, all offended.

  “Yeah, well, maybe you should care more about other stuff, like your health.”

  And your relationships, like with Mindy. But mentioning that might be mean.

  Alpha’s nostrils flare and then he nods, calming himself down. “It’s nice that you’re worried about me, but I’ll be fine. All I need is to win the championship and then I’ll give up the gear forever. And to do that, I have to qualify in Miami, which is in a week. So excuse me.”

  He heads outta the bathroom to finish his workout while I think about his words.

  Will he really give up the gear if he wins? I wonder about that and wonder about me. I try to imagine a time when either of us, when any of the gearheads, will be fine with lifting less weight, having less mass.

  But I just can’t picture it.

  27

  THE BACKYARD is ready for the celebration. No need for streamers, balloons, or cake. With the gearheads all you need is the large foldout table and chairs, which I have set up, some meat, which is on the way, and a hot grill, which I’m taking care of right now.

  I’ve stacked the charcoal pyramid-style, like Dad taught me. Now I squeeze just a swirl of lighter fluid onto the briquettes. When I drop a lit match onto it, I step back.